Meg Cabot - Third Time Lucky

And why? Why THIS TIME? Surprisingly, it's not because:

Two months ago I found out that I'm the heir to the throne of a small European nation, and that at the end of this month I am going to have to go to said small European nation and be formally introduced for the first time to the people over whom I will one day reign, and who will undoubtedly hate me, because given that my favourite shoes are my combat boots and my favourite TV show is Baywatch, I am so not the royal princess type.

Or because:

My mother, who is expecting to give birth to my Algebra teacher's child in approximately six months, recently eloped with said Algebra teacher.

Or even because:

At school they've been loading us down with so much homework — and after school, Grandmere's been torturing me so endlessly with all the princess stuff I've got to learn by Christmas — that I haven't even been able to keep up with this journal, let alone anything else.

Oh, no. It's not because of any of that. Why is my life over?

Because I have a boyfriend.

And, yes, at fourteen years of age, I suppose it's about time. I mean, all my friends have boyfriends. All of them, even Lilly, who blames the male sex for most, if not all, of society's ills.

And, OK, Lilly's boyfriend is Boris Pelkowski, who may, at the age of fifteen, be one of the nation's leading violin virtuosos,

but that doesn't mean he doesn't tuck his sweater into his trousers, or that more often than not he doesn't have food in his braces. Not what I would call ideal boyfriend material, but Lilly seems to like him which is all that matters.

I guess.

I have to admit, when Lilly - possibly the pickiest person on this planet (and I should know, having been best friends with her since the first grade) - got a boyfriend and I still didn't have one, I pretty much started to think there was something wrong with me. You know, besides my gigantism and what Lilly's parents, the Drs. Moscovitz, who are psychiatrists, call my inability to verbalize my inner rage.

And then, one day, out of the blue, I got one. A boyfriend, I mean.

Well, OK, not out of the blue. Kenny, from my Bio. class, started sending me all these anonymous love letters. I didn't know it was him. I kind of thought (OK, hoped) someone else was sending them. But in the end, it turned out to be Kenny. And by then I was in too deep, really, to get out. So voila. I had a boyfriend.

Problem solved, right?

Not. So not.

It isn't that I don't like Kenny. I do. I really do. We have a lot in common. For instance, we both appreciate the preciousness

of not just human, but all life forms, and refuse to dissect foetal pigs and frogs in Bio. Instead, we are writing term papers on the life cycles of various grub and mealworms.

And we both like science fiction. Kenny knows a lot more about it than I do, but he has been very impressed so far by the extent of my familiarity with the works of Robert A. Heinlein and Isaac Asimov, both of whom we were forced to read in school (though he doesn't seem to remember this).

I haven't told Kenny that I actually find most science fiction boring, since there seems to be very few girls in it.

There are a lot of girl characters in Japanese anime, which Kenny also really likes, and which he has decided to devote his life to promoting (when he is not busy finding a cure for cancer). Unfortunately, I have noticed that most of the girls in Japanese anime seem to have misplaced their bras.

Plus I really think it might be detrimental to a fighter pilot to have a lot of long hair floating around in the cockpit while she is gunning down the forces of evil.

But like I said, I haven't mentioned any of this to Kenny. And mostly, we get along great. We have a fun time together. And in some ways, it's very nice to have a boyfriend, you know? Like, I don't have to worry now about not being asked to the Albert Einstein High School Non-Denominational Winter Dance (so-called because its former title, the Albert Einstein High School Christmas Dance, offended many of our non-Christmas-celebrating students).

And why is it that I do not have to worry about not being asked to the biggest dance of the school year, with the exception of prom?

Because I'm going with Kenny.

Well, OK, he hasn't exactly asked me yet, but he will. Because he is my boyfriend.

Isn't that great? Sometimes I think I must be the luckiest girl in the whole world. I mean, really. Think about it: I may not be pretty, but I am not grossly disfigured; I live in New York City, the coolest place on the planet; I'm a princess; I have a boyfriend. What more could a girl ask for?

Oh, God.

WHO AM I KIDDING?????

This boyfriend of mine? Yeah, here's the scoop on him:

I DON'T EVEN LIKE HIM.

Well, OK, it's not that I don't like him. But this boyfriend thing, I just don't know. Kenny's a nice enough guy and all - don't get me wrong. I mean, he is funny and not boring to be with, certainly. And he's pretty cute, you know, in a tall, skinny sort of way.

It's just that when I see Kenny walking down the hall, my heart so totally doesn't start beating faster, the way girls' hearts start beating faster in those teen romances my friend Tina Hakim Baba is always reading.

And when Kenny takes my hand, at the movies or whatever, it's not like my hand gets all tingly in his, the way girls' hands do

in those books.

And when he kisses me? Yeah, you know those fireworks people always talk about? OK, forget it about. No fireworks. Nil. Nada.

It's funny, because before I got a boyfriend I used to spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to get one and, once I got him, how I'd get him to kiss me.

But now that I actually have a boyfriend, mostly all I do is try to figure out how to get out of kissing him.

One way that I have found works quite effectively is the head turn. See, if you notice his lips coming towards you, you just turn your head at the last minute so all he gets is your cheek and maybe some hair.

I guess the worst thing is that when Kenny gazes deeply into my eyes - which he does a lot - and asks me what I am thinking about, I am usually thinking about this one certain person.

And that person isn't Kenny. It isn't Kenny at all. It is Lilly's older brother, Michael Moscovitz, whom I have loved for - oh, I don't know, MY ENTIRE LIFE.

Not that he even knows I am alive, except as his little sister's best friend, but whatever.

Which is why I have decided I have to tell him. Kenny, I mean. About how I really feel.

That's why my life is over. Because how do you say to somebody who wants to hold your hand in the movies that you don't like him in that way? Especially when he's already asked you out a bunch of times and you've gone. And you knew full well

the whole time that he wasn't asking you as a friend — he was asking you as a potential life mate.

Or a royal consort, as Grandmere would say.

Wait, though. It gets worse.

Because now it's like everybody considers us this big item. You know? Now we're Kenny-and-Mia. Now, instead of Lilly

and me hanging out together Saturday nights, it's Lilly-and-Boris and Kenny-and-Mia. Sometimes my friend Tina Hakim Baba, and her boyfriend, Dave Farouq El-Abar, and my other friend Shameeka Taylor, and her boyfriend, Daryl Gardner, join us, making it Lilly-and-Boris and Kenny-and-Mia and Tina-and-Dave and Shameeka-and-Daryl.

So if Kenny and I break up, not only will it be this very big deal, but who am I going to hang around with on Saturday nights?

I mean, seriously. Lilly-and-Boris and Tina-and-Dave and Shameeka-and-Daryl won't want just plain Mia along. I'll be like

this seventh wheel.

Not to mention, if Kenny and I break up, who will I go to the Non-Denominational Winter Dance with?